Forty-three (Poem)

Forty-three

for the students of Iguala

Their dreams reduced
to lead and fire, these
forty-three become pure
silence we cannot hear.

Bones in a landfill, teeth
on the banks of a river—
mere fragments in black
plastic, giving no one a clue

to any body burned to dust.
The storm petrels refuse
to come ashore, their fear
the moon-lit night's echoes

of keening loons. The sky
swallows every last breath.

© 2014 Maureen E. Doallas